"I will tell you when I know who it is."
"Oh, I assure you it is a very desirable match, a most excellent young man—so amiable, and fashionable, and clever, as you will at once allow when you hear it is—Mr. Tom Musgrove!"
"Tom Musgrove—indeed, I am surprised, Margaret—that he should marry, and marry you, would, I own, astonish me."
"But I tell you it is a fact, Sam, we are engaged beyond all doubt, and why you should be surprised at my being his choice, I cannot understand."
"I beg your pardon, Margaret, tell me what you want my advice about—not as to accepting him I presume?"
"No, indeed—but I am in an unfortunate situation; I am so miserable; ever since the happy night at Osborne Castle, when he plighted his troth to me, we have not met, and I have heard nothing of him."
"That is very extraordinary, Margaret—nothing at all—and can you not account for it."
"No, otherwise than I am sure he is ill—nothing else could be the reason of such unexampled silence. It was after supper when he made the offer, and I cannot help fearing that the champagne and the lobster salad may have been too much for his constitution."
"Did he take much champagne then?"
"Much—no, not much, that is, not enough to—to—just you know to raise his spirits a good deal; I did not count the glasses!"